Of Birthdays and Interruptions
by Corsair Sinphonse
Summary: It's July 4th, and America wakes up early with the intent of informing Russia. Rated M for fairly obvious reasons.  My summaries are terrible...


**A/N: **Was determined to write something in honor of Independence Day (like the rest of the FF community, evidently...) and here's the result. Lovely. Enjoy it. I don't write sex, and this was initially supposed to be dubcon, but it didn't really go with the theme and I was faced with a deadline.

Reviews are appreciated, and I risk converting this from a oneshot at some point if there's enough enthusiasm.

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><p><em>Somewhere in a land far, far away…<em>

_Ivan sat atop a mountain of unidentifiable solid material the color of asphault, looking at the burning cityscape in front of him while twirling a sunflower between his fingers. Capitalism had finally reached the last straw that broke the camel's back in America, and of course, the Eastern nation demanded a front-row seat. Shaking his head, he sneered at no one in particular as he reminisced about the state of anarchy that had slowly consumed the country. The falling ash from the smoldering rafters strongly resembled a gentle snowfall, and paid an almost humorous homage to a famous statement made by one of Ivan's ex-leaders, directed at the United States - "We will bury you"._

_And where was the little capitalist swine, anyway?_

**_Russia!_**

_Of course he'd come crawling to Ivan for help – he had always been a superpower, waiting silently in the shadows for this moment to come._

**_RUSSIA!_**

_And oh, how he'd enjoy watching the vulnerable nation fall to his knees in front of-_

Ivan was suddenly jolted from his sleep as footsteps thundered down the hallway, followed by an obnoxiously familiar voice…

"I know you're in there, communist _bitch_! Get up!"

Groaning and covering his head with a pillow, the Russian tried as hard as his mental constraint would allow to force himself into a coma. Something, _anything_, to finally get some sleep.

His eyes shut tighter as the pounding on the door ensued. "Open up, god damnit! I know jetlag sucks, but _seriously! _Get the fuck up!"

The insufferable fool evidently wasn't leaving any time soon.

"What are you wanting?"

"Do you know what day it is, commie?"

A sigh. _One that was faring quite splendidly until you came roaring down the hallway_.

"Wednesday, idiot."

"Wrong! It's July 4th."

"That doesn't mean it's not Wednesd-"

Oh _fuck. _

He threw his pillow at the wall as his temper flared. He'd agreed to attend a conference with America in less than two weeks, but his boss had suggested that he depart early for the conference to get used to the atmosphere. Apparently, so had America's leaders.

But being aurally harassed by the Western nation was _not _something that he'd agreed to.

The holiday was a bothersome (pointless, Ivan asserted) and overly grandiose display of America's arrogance, and a waste of perfectly good gunpowder.

"Go away," he stated flatly.

"It's my birthday, jackass!" America began an extensive list of demands due to the fact that 'he was the best and obviously deserved fair treatment from the socialist for at least ONE day of the year', and concluded the rant with a series of extremely loud bangs on the door. Sitting up abruptly and swiftly making his way to the door, Ivan would've been particularly proud of the shocked look on Alfred's face when the door swung open. That, and the fact it was paired with (or rather, quickly followed by) a suffocating grip on the man's collar. But unfortunately, the Soviet was too irritated to notice.

"You disturbed me from my sleep, and you continually take pleasure in disturbing me while I am awake," Ivan growled, as the nation struggling to free himself from his iron grasp whined about his uniform ("Dude, I just got this dry cleaned, what the hell?"). Glare deepening, Ivan grabbed his pipe from a nearby shelf and shoved it against the younger man's windpipe. "You are truly ridiculous, America, thinking you still bestow so much power where you do not. You have lost your influence," he said with a smirk, "and I have gained it. Know your place, little ребён-"

Stumbling back and losing his grip on Alfred's uniform, Ivan regretted not suspending the man by his fingernails earlier, preventing a sucker punch to the jaw that the American had just executed.

Alfred was beaming. "I might not know a lot of your filthy language, pinko, but I damn well know when I'm being insulted."

Expressing twisting into that of saccharine sweetness coated in malice, Ivan laughed a very unsettling laugh. Even for Alfred Jones, that sound emanating from Ivan Braginski held a universal connotation, and that connotation was that the force of Mother Russia was not one to be reckoned with.

Before Alfred knew what'd happened, Ivan had pinned him to the bed behind them, still as messy as it had been left. Establishing a firm grasp on the man's wrists, Ivan leered down at his captive. "I think it's time you were taught to respect your elders, darling America. And since nothing else seems to get through to you," he said while twisting the man's wrist to render him immobile, receiving a groan in the process, "I'll have to make sure you remember." Alfred's eyes widened as Ivan's grip tightened. "Russia! What the fuck, let me g-aahhh," The nation's protest was cut off by something strongly resembling a poorly stifled moan as Ivan's bit down on the neck of the writhing nation below him.

This wasn't about to go unnoticed.

Drawing back, Ivan quirked his eyebrow at Alfred, who blushed furiously without breaking eye contact. "Is little America _enjoying_ this?" he asked with an incredulous expression, amused beyond comprehension. Alfred glared in response, and attempted to shove Ivan off – but much to his dismay (though it was expected), Ivan didn't budge. He wiped the smirk off of his face to replace it with a feigned worried look.

"How are you feeling, America? You don't look so well." He glanced down to the growingly apparent bulge in Alfred's pants, while (if possible) the glare got worse. "Shut up, you goddamn tease," he muttered. An incredibly devious grin crept onto the Eastern nation's face. "I'll happily continue, little _whore_." Hardly stopping to inhale his scent, Ivan's teeth grazed the American's flesh and gave the captive no time to object. His fingers twisted into Alfred's golden locks and forced his head back, drawing a gasp from the nation and exposing the delicate, milky white skin of his neck that just begged to be tainted. Leaving a trail of Soviet red down past the uniform's collar, the Russian tore open his suit jacket, strewing buttons across the room. Alfred's half-lidded eyes flicked up to meet Ivan's hungry gaze as fingers ghosted over the younger man's erection, before suddenly gripping the appendage tightly and causing the cerulean orbs to roll back in the American's head. Smirking, Ivan stroked the length with his thumb and Alfred let out an entirely unrestricted moan, eyes closing and back arching backwards over the sheets. "I never knew you could be so _submissive_, America," he taunted, giving the hardened flesh a squeeze before flipping the nation onto his stomach.

Alfred knew that Russia was a progressive nation, but he certainly hadn't thought he was _this_ progressive.

Gripping the bedpost tightly, Alfred felt all the heat in his body spiral down toward his groin as Russia traced a line down his back. Whimpering at the loss of contact for a moment, his eyes widened when he felt something much larger and _warmer_ positioned at his entrance, and he held back a scream (while the bedpost threatened to crack) when he was invaded with one thrust. Ivan must have sensed this, because his movement suddenly slowed to a stop. After he took a moment to regain his bearings, Ivan was surprised to hear the younger man hiss "_Move._" Pulling back, Ivan complied as he thrust into Alfred again, and again, rewarded with a heightening cry each time. It wasn't long until his ears were met with a scream, mixed with a string of half-curses, that resembled something like Ivan's name, and the possessive dominant in Ivan's mind suddenly took over as the floodgates of self-control were broken. The torrent of violent thrusts caused the headboard to thrash against the wall, mimicking the twisting nation below him. "Scream my name, America, so everyone can hear it," he gasped, and Alfred did just that. The sound left his lungs as the orgasm coursed through his veins, and Ivan followed shortly after with a stifled cry. After several minutes of basking in the post-climax glow, the Russian withdrew, and was almost as surprised as Alfred when the American turned over abruptly and pecked the man on the cheek. Blinking for a moment, Ivan lay down next to Alfred and attempted to conceal his blush. "I'm actually kinda glad I came and bothered you today, communist bastard," Alfred mumbled. Ivan rolled his eyes and glanced at his company with a raised eyebrow. "Well, do not expect any more birthday celebrating from me, capitalist prick," he said sharply, only to be met with an outburst of giggles from the other.

"You know, I had a dream about you," Ivan murmured into Alfred's shoulder.

"Mm, really?"

"Da… but it was so _rudely _interrupted", he sneered, tossing the younger nation off the bed, onto his knees. Alfred barely had time to recuperate from the impact of the hardwood floor before feeling a strong grip on his collar, while Ivan forced his chin up so his gaze would meet his own glowing orbs. "Be creative. _Finish_ it for me. And this time," taking a pause to savor every ounce of the same delicious vulnerability he'd dreamt of, "_no _interruptions."


End file.
